


Funny Old World

by CopperBeech



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Hellblazer
Genre: Demon Summoning, Don't copy to another site, Holy Water, M/M, Summoning Circles, Wrong number, newcastle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-03
Updated: 2019-12-03
Packaged: 2021-02-26 15:40:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21660544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CopperBeech/pseuds/CopperBeech
Summary: John Constantine's gotten the wrong demon before. This time, it's even weirder.He’d found things with forty eyes in the summoning circle when he wanted one with ten arms, or misread a letter in an old grimoire and turfed up a demoness of seduction who’d left him in an embarrassing condition for hours.And then there was this: a small, stout, faintly familiar man in an out-of date beige suit, brushing himself off as hestepped out of the circle, glancing down at the chalked symbols with a faint grimace of distaste.
Relationships: Aziraphale & John Constantine, Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 59
Kudos: 523





	Funny Old World

**Author's Note:**

> Not only is this an obvious crossover -- I'm hardly the first or fifth to notice -- but going back to a few old issues of _Hellblazer_ before writing convinces me that the writers had _Good Omens_ fresh in their heads.

He’d fucked up before, of course. He knew all the rules, don’t cut corners on the supplies, check your work, do not call up any that you cannot put down; he’s a canny bugger, a survivor, and it still hadn’t stopped him doing stupid shit. He’d found things with forty eyes in the summoning circle when he wanted one with ten arms, or misread a letter in an old grimoire and turfed up a demoness of seduction who’d left him in an embarrassing condition for hours.

And then there was this: a small, stout, faintly familiar man in an out-of-date beige suit, brushing himself off as he _stepped out of the circle,_ glancing down at the chalked symbols with a faint grimace of distaste.

“Do you mind terribly?” he said. “I was in the middle of something.”

John Constantine had ended up screaming at moments like this, or shouting desperate phrases in Old Enochian, but he’d never expected to find himself simply standing there with his jaw hanging open.

“You… _left the circle.”_

“Well, of course. How am I to get home otherwise?”

“You… shouldn’t be able to do that.” _And if you can, why aren’t you ripping off my head right about now?_ Though the beige-suited man seemed more simply put out than actually hostile.

“Well, my dear, it looks as if you set this up to contain a demon. I’m an angel. It doesn’t give me much more than goosebumps. I have to assume you got a slightly wrong number.”

The angel, if that was in fact what he was, circumnavigated the wheel of chalked symbols, tut-tutting slightly as he went. “Probably it’s because using only this sigil was imprecise.” He gestured at a serpentine, twining arabesque at the point in the circle where the demon’s name would normally appear. “You could summon the entity indicated, or you could summon those bound to him… or her… or it… that seems to be what happened here. Ah – well, Crowley is considered my great Adversary on this plane by many. It counts as a form of binding. Don’t you often find there’s a tie between you and a special, ah, enemy?”

“Crowley?”

“Well, that’s his sigil. I have to assume that’s who you were calling.”

“I only had the sigil. I wouldn’t have worked without the name, except there was something I needed.”

“Well, this is hardly the way to get on someone’s good side. I’m sure the milk’s boiled over back at my shop, and it’ll take a fairly sharp miracle to set things right.”

 _Shop._ There was the connection. Constantine flinched guiltily as he realized the exact book he’d been using was one he’d nicked from a shop in Soho, years before, almost under the nose of this very man – or angel – who’d been patiently explaining to another patron exactly why the book she wanted couldn’t be sold that day at any price.

“Next time, why don’t you just call? The last I looked, he was in the London directory -- we _are_ still in London, aren't we? -- under A. J. Crowley. Speaking of which, do you mind if I use your phone?”

“Uh.. Sure, not a problem.” The phone was under a small pile of crusted takeaway boxes that he’d cleared off the floor to do the working.

“Ah, hello, darling… I hope you weren’t busy? I’m in a bit of a predicament, could I possibly trouble you for a ride? No, nothing dangerous. Just a little case of crossed signals.” He lowered the phone briefly to look back over his shoulder at Constantine. “What’s the address here?”

Stammering, Constantine gave it, trying to keep his body between the angel and the pilfered book lying open on the side table. “Oh, lovely… thank you _so_ much, dear. I suppose I could just snap myself back, but I _have_ had a bit of a jolt. It's very sweet of you.” He cradled the old-style receiver, which Constantine had never bothered to upgrade; half the time the phone service was cut off for nonpayment, anyway.

“Now. I should like to know what, precisely, you wanted with him.” The angel nodded towards the chalked sigil on the floor. “And would you mind clearing that up? It bothers me a bit.”

The angel could be heard blowing out candles while Constantine poked in the kitchen for a cleaning rag, acutely conscious of the stale hogo of cigarette smoke, the dishes in the sink, and the sock that had been half under the sofa for two or three weeks. His guest was impeccably turned out and smelled faintly, not of sulfur or smoke, but something on the order of Lilac Vegetal.

“Well, you remember, couple months ago -- ?” he said as he started on the chalk circle with the damp cloth.

“You could be more specific, but I have an inkling what you mean.”

“There was _some_ kind of flux in the occult ether. Up near Oxford. I don’t think anyone without – connections – remembers it now, but pretty sure we all dodged a bullet that day, am I right?”

“Tolerably close to the mark. You missed a bit over here.” The angel pointed, and Constantine glimpsed a ring on the third finger of his left hand. Just a flash, but the design wasn't one he'd expect. Well, _that_ was peculiar.

“So, kind of people I talk to, word gets around, rumor it had something to do with a demon who’d come down on humanity’s side. The one with that sigil. I needed a favour.”

“Well, be very glad you got _me_ , then. He can be dreadfully testy. You might have woken him up from a nap – I’d hate to think. Whatever was this about?”

Constantine tossed the rag aside to make the acquaintance of the odd sock and sat crosslegged on the scuffed parquet. “Someone I hoped he could look up for me in Hell. Someone who – doesn’t belong there, and it’s my fault.”

“My dear. I’m sorry. I’m afraid he couldn’t help you there.”

"He’s a demon, ent he? Why not?”

“Well, you know, if you take humanity’s side, they get a bit stroppy Downstairs. Lord Beelzebub made a valiant try at dissolving him in Holy Water, but he’d become strangely immune.” The angel said this with an odd, sly, and rather fond smile. Constantine got a closer look at the ring. It was, indeed, a snake twined around itself in a circle, with little jet-black eyes. “So I’m afraid he’s lost his membership at the club rather.”

The tears were unexpected. He’d been hoping so much. When Nergal took Astra, back at the scene of his first, worst cock-up in Newcastle, he’d staggered out of Hell holding nothing but the child's arm. It had taken two years of shock treatments and stupefying drugs before he’d stopped waking up every night, screaming.

He felt the angel settle on the floor next to him, a hand come to rest lightly on his arm. “My dear… you’re upset. Do you know, I never got your name.”

“Constantine. John Constantine.”

“Mine’s Fell. At least for our purposes. John, is there _anything_ I can do?”

He found he was frankly sobbing then, hand over his face, humiliated. “It’s just been so long… I never stopped wanting to save her and the dreams come back _every damn night…”_

The hand lifted from his sleeve to his forehead. “I wish I could be more help, but at least I can manage this.” It wasn’t heat, exactly; but a radiance that was more felt than seen spread from the hand down his body, stilling the catches in his breath, easing the emptiness.

He let himself simply exist in the centre of that invisible light for what could have been a week or a handful of seconds. The angel's hand came away presently, but he felt as if it were still there.

“I don’t think you’ll be having the dreams tonight.”

“Thanks, mate,” mouthed Constantine silently. It seemed almost sacrilege to speak aloud.

“Is there anything else I can do to help?”

“Um…”

“Yes?”

“You mentioned Holy Water. Can you bless some for me? Only… in my line of country you need it in a pinch, buggardly hard to come by without some sacristan making a scene.”

“Oh, certainly. No trouble.” Though it was, because finding a clean bottle and making room for it under the tap took a bit of doing. The angel ended up rinsing a whisky bottle after Constantine helped out by swallowing the last mouthful, and corked it tightly, drying it with a threadbare tea towel. “Just remember, you are never, ever to get anywhere near my dear Crowley with this.”

“I thought you said…” His _dear_ Crowley?

The angel laid a finger to his lips. “Ask no questions and I’ll tell no lies.”

A horn sounded in the street below.

“There’s my ride, I expect. You know… I could ask him to talk to you, if you’d like.”

Constantine considered, shook his head. “Changed my mind.”

“Well, as you please.” The angel stepped toward the door with its history of successive paint jobs and scuffs. “I’ll take my leave….”

“Ah, wait..”

The angel turned.

“This is yours.” Constantine held out the book. “Feel a bit bad, keepin’ it.”

The angel regarded the book with dawning recognition and delight, raised eyes to beam at him. “I always say that even those who think they’re damned can find they’re decent people, deep down. Thank you. And John…”

The blue eyes locked with his for a moment. “ _Do_ be careful.”

He was out before Constantine could answer. Footsteps receded down the stairs.

He found himself at the kitchen window, looking down into the street. The lean figure propped against the fender of a gleaming antique black Bentley (parked with sublime indifference next to a hydrant) had hair redder than Devon sandstone, and a coiling tattoo just visible on his temple below the arm of opaquely black glasses. He could make out just enough to recognize the sigil he’d drawn on the floor an hour ago.

“What was that about, angel?” he could hear over the London traffic.

The angel’s voice was softer, but his head tilted in the direction of Constantine’s flat. He drew back from the window.

“Well, now you know how it feels. What about lunch?”

The angel stood a little on tiptoe to deposit a fond kiss beside the twining tattoo, and settled in the passenger seat.

Now _that_ wasn’t something you’d see every day. Constantine’s eyes followed the car as it slid through an impossibly narrow gap and disappeared into the London traffic.

“Well,” he said to the pile of takeaway boxes, the sock, and the flat in general. “Funny old world, ennit?”

I've been loving you a long time  
Down all the years, down all the days  
And I've cried for all your troubles  
Smiled at your funny little ways

We watched our friends grow up together  
And we saw them as they fell  
Some of them fell into Heaven  
Some of them fell into Hell

\-- The Pogues, _Rainy Night In Soho_

_finis_

**Author's Note:**

> If yer likes yer Vertigo titles I've got GO/Sandman too: "That Bonny Road."
> 
> The Pogues lyrics are skimmed from Garth Ennis' tenure writing "John Constantine: Hellblazer." Music vid here because I music-geek. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PSyL-TrD_2g
> 
> If you liked, share, reblog, comment! Authors are always thirsty :)
> 
> Come say hello on Tumblr @CopperPlateBeech


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